Wedding Dress

For the new year.

Wedding Dress
Pauline Hsia

I tugged at the necktie; I had difficulty breathing. Mary was trying on a wedding dress and I was waiting patiently for her outside the fitting room doors—another fiancé responsibility. The divan’s surface was unyielding and my ass had fallen asleep, but Blooming Bridal had the most to offer so far.

The other bridal shops fell short in Mary’s eyes, and I feared that this pursuit for a wedding dress was taking a turn for the worst. My father always said that during the period in which women plan to wed, they turn into animals and their wedding dress was their primary fixation. He’s exaggerating, I thought. But after seeing Mary pry a potential dress from an elderly woman’s hands, perhaps seeking for her granddaughter, and her disregarding my opinions and complaints, my father’s words rang thrice-fold. Though, gratefully, we discovered Blooming Bridal, I began to wonder about my pending marriage.

I have never seen this side of Mary before. Wait. That’s not true. Once, when her stepmother came to visit, she criticized her in cooking and cleaning. When her stepmother left, Mary threw a tantrum about not siding with her, but the truth was, I was just as scared as she was. I confessed, after being struck by fists, that there was a hairy mole on her stepmother’s neck that moved on its own accord, making Mary suddenly sputter with laughter. It took a kiss to finish sealing away the anger.

After that, I had never been privy to see her in foul moods. I began to doubt more and more if I knew Mary at all. Had love blindsided her now prevalent faults? Uncertainty grew and grew, consuming daytime fantasies that had once been Mary in the kitchen cooking my favorite meal or Mary in a skimpy French maid uniform. They were now replaced by Mary glaring and Mary nagging and Mary disapproving.

“Are you ready?” Mary’s voice was thin and sharp. The doors slid open and there she was, in the most stunning wedding gown, with her face scrunched anxiously. I stared at the right hand—that previously grappled a wedding dress from an elderly woman—unconsciously plucking at the lacy fabric.

“What do you think?” Her fingers stopped moving.

If I left her this instant, if I walked away and said that I didn’t think I could marry her…

She frowned, “You don’t like it?”

“Remember when your stepmom came to visit and you got so angry, you beat me half to death because I didn’t stand up for you.”

Mary’s face relaxed, “You told me that you were too scared to. That her hairy mole was out to get you.”

“You were really angry with me though.”

“I know. I was. You really hurt me.”

“Why did you forgive me?”

She jokingly said, “Who else could make me angry enough to have to give forgiveness?” Her fingers moved again, dancing lightly. She continued, “Wouldn’t you have forgiven me?”

I didn’t answer right away, but when I did, I said, “Are we paying for this dress with cash or credit?”